


Salty Like A Summer Day

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dry Humping, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Marijuana, No Spoilers, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:44:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's in a bad mood after a hunt. Dean has a solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salty Like A Summer Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Supernatural fic, eeep.

There are some nights when Sam thinks that hunting really _sucks_.  
  
Tonight is one of those nights. After they finish the job, Sam trudges into the motel room, kicking his boots off with a scowl. Mostly, he just wants to get into bed and sleep, but the adrenaline from the hunt is still pounding away in his bloodstream. It wasn’t even a hard job, in comparison to most of the other ones they’ve taken on; just a simple salt-and-burn, the least complicated case they’ve had in weeks. They managed to burn the bones and were just finishing up the job of re-filling the grave when the cops showed up and they had to make a run for it. But they’d gotten away fine, and neither of them were hurt, so Sam can’t exactly put his finger on what’s putting him in such a bad mood. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to see another fucking ghost for about a year. He flops down face-first onto his bed (or Dean’s, because he’s too exhausted to even care) and sighs heavily.  
  
“Somethin’ wrong, Sammy?” Dean asks, kicking the door shut as he drags their stuff inside. Sam makes a vague grumbling sound into the sheets. He feels the mattress sink as Dean sits down beside him.  
  
“Cranky,” Dean remarks, ruffling his hair, and Sam swats his hand away, maybe harder than necessary.   
  
“I swear to God, Dean, I will punch you in the nuts.”  
  
“Okay, alright,” Dean says, voice softening. “Bad mood. I get it. Need something to cheer you up?”  
  
Sam rolls over onto his back, gazing up at him skeptically. “Like what?”  
  
A smirk crosses Dean’s face, and Sam is suddenly sure he’s going to regret asking. Dean leans down to dig through his bag. After a couple seconds, he triumphantly pulls out a metal tin.  
  
“What’s in there?” Sam asks. He’s a little relieved that it isn’t porn, at least.  
  
Dean passes the tin to him, and Sam pops the lid off. An earthy smell floats up from inside, and his eyes widen when he sees the contents; two joints, long and thin, rolled up neatly in white papers.  
  
“Dude,” Sam says, surprised.  
  
Dean looks at him expectantly.  
  
“Where’d you even get this?” Sam asks, because he’s caught in some kind of internal battle between wanting to and not wanting to. Weed’s never really been his thing, but tonight the idea doesn’t seem so bad.  
  
“I knew a guy a few towns back,” Dean says, shrugging. He nudges Sam. “So? You wanna get baked?”  
  
Sam snorts. “What are you, fifteen?”  
  
“Have you even been high before?” Dean counters, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“I went to college,” Sam replies defensively, and it’s true.   
  
(It’s also true that Sam’s only tried it once, and he mostly just ended up coughing so hard that he nearly puked, but Dean doesn’t need to know that.)  
  
“Great,” Dean says, grinning. “Let’s do it, then.” He snatches one of the joints out of the tin, digging through his pockets for a lighter. He lifts the joint to his lips, flicks the lighter at the other end, sucks in. His eyes slip shut as he inhales the smoke. Sam watches, fascinated, as Dean holds it in his lungs for a few seconds and then blows it out again, a little white puff that quickly disperses in the air.  
  
Dean coughs a little, smirking, and holds the joint out to Sam expectantly. “Your turn, Sammy.”  
  
Sam hesitates, caught between curiosity and apprehensiveness and the bad mood that’s still making him want to curl under the covers for the next 8 hours. But Dean just nudges him insistently. “Come on. It’ll make you laugh and help you relax. Seems like exactly what you need right now.”  
  
Sam can’t really argue with that.   
  
~  
  
“Dude,” Sam says, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he recovers from another fit of laughter. He’s sprawled out across the foot of the bed, half-curled next to Dean’s legs. Dean’s sitting up against the headboard, grinning down at him.   
  
“What?” Dean replies, nudging Sam with his foot.   
  
Sam swallows another wave of laughter at the gesture, and pushes himself up into a sitting position. “Just... dude. Why haven’t we done this before?”  
  
Dean shrugs. “It’s never been something I’ve done, you know, _a lot_. Just every once in a while.” he pauses. “Why? You like it?”  
  
Sam nods eagerly, sliding up the bed until he’s sitting next to Dean. “It’s nice. I don’t feel all...” He makes some vague gesture, trying to illustrate the stress and frustration and fear that normally comes with the job.   
  
He can’t exactly convey it properly, but Dean gets it. He smiles, bumping his shoulder against Sam’s. “If you wanna get high more often, just say so, Sammy.”  
  
“Yeah, alright.” Sam grins, ducking his head, a little embarrassed but mostly just feeling like a kid again next to his big brother. It’s nice. On an impulse, he leans over and wraps one arm around Dean’s waist in a sort of awkwardly-angled half-hug. Dean looks surprised, but he doesn’t protest, just wraps both his arms around Sam to return the embrace. When they pull away, Dean keeps one arm around Sam’s shoulders, and that feels nice too.  
  
Sam breathes in deeply, relaxing all over. His legs fall open, one thigh resting against Dean’s, and his body tilts sideways, into the warmth of Dean’s side. Dean leans back against the headboard, eyes slipping shut and a faint smile on his face. Sam likes this; the physical closeness, the buzz from the weed, the warm drowsiness spreading through his body, all of it. They are _definitely_ going to do this more often.  
  
He lets his eyes slide along Dean’s body. He’s in just a white t-shirt, his over-shirt abandoned on the floor a few minutes ago, and those old, worn-out, too-tight jeans that he still refuses to get rid of. Sam smiles affectionately. His eyes take in the details of the jeans, the rips in the knees, the way they hug his thighs just a little too tightly. As his gaze travels up, he stops, noticing a more-than-obvious bulge in the front of Dean’s pants.  
  
“You’ve got a boner,” Sam says, and something about that is inexplicably funny to him. He rests his cheek against the worn material of Dean’s t-shirt as he giggles softly.  
  
“Hmmm. Sorry,” Dean murmurs, without opening his eyes.  
  
“S’okay,” Sam replies, grinning. He pauses, realizes, “I’ve got one too.” To prove his point, he turns a little, pressing into Dean’s thigh, and Dean’s eyes blink open, red and unfocused.  
  
“Wow. You do.” His voice is low and a little rough, and Sam finds that he kind of likes it.  
  
“You wanna do something about it?” Sam asks, casually, because his mind is pretty fuzzy right now and this doesn’t feel like a big deal, not really. As far as their lives go, this is about a three on the Weird Scale.  
  
Dean raises an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?” he asks, and Sam’s relieved to see that he doesn’t look freaked out, just a little curious and a lot relaxed.  
  
Sam shrugs. “We could just...” he trails off, rocking his hips against Dean’s thigh, and a little gasp of pleasure escapes his lips. The friction feels nice, even through two layers of denim.  
  
“Yeah?” Dean asks, voice a little strained, and Sam barely has time to nod before Dean’s hands are on his hips, pulling and pushing and guiding until Sam’s on top of him, straddling his thighs as he braces his hands on the headboard on either side of Dean’s shoulders.  
  
Before Sam can even think, Dean’s rocking up against him, denim-covered cock rubbing right up against Sam’s, and _God_ , maybe the weed is messing with senses but Sam could swear on his life that nothing he’s done has ever felt this _good_ before. He rolls his hips back down, more friction and pressure and Dean’s head tips back, a half-stuttered moan forcing its way out. And it feels fantastic, _almost_ perfect, but the angle’s not quite right, and Sam needs _more_. Without thinking, he moves back, off of Dean. Dean’s eyes blink open, confused, but before he can say anything, Sam’s grabbing the backs of Dean’s thighs and pulling, maneuvering him onto his back, flat on the bed. Then Sam is on top of him, bodies flush against one another, and he’s grinding his cock against Dean’s again and holy _fuck_ , this time it really _is_ perfect. Sam groans, burying his face in between Dean’s neck and shoulder as he rolls his hips down, again and again.   
  
“Shit, Sammy,” Dean groans, and his hands grasp onto Sam’s ass, pulling him down, fingers digging into the denim. Sam has a sudden flash of want, wishing desperately that they were naked. He wants to feel his brother’s dick right up against his own, hot hard skin instead of all this fabric. And Jesus, that should make him feel so dirty and wrong, but mostly it just turns him on beyond belief.   
  
It’s not like Sam’s never noticed that he was attracted to Dean before. He’s been sneaking glances at him since he was fourteen, whenever he thinks Dean isn’t looking and sometimes even when he knows he is. There’s been a few nights – when he was away at college, mostly – where he’s jerked off to the thought of Dean’s hands on him, Dean’s mouth and lips and freckled skin and short, soft hair.   
  
Sam’s not as bothered by it as he should be. He figures that the way he grew up – being around Dean 24/7, being _different_ and having no one besides Dean who could ever understand – must have left some kind of impact on his sexuality. And if he sometimes gets off thinking about his big brother... well, that’s definitely not the most fucked-up thing in their fucked-up lives. Not even in the top ten, in Sam’s opinion.   
  
And God, Dean feels so good underneath him right now that he doubted he’d be able to care even if he _hadn’t_ accepted it already.  
  
“Dean,” he chokes out, and Dean’s breath hitches audibly. They’re rutting together desperately now, sloppy and awkward, no rhythm at all, but it’s driving Sam crazy, Dean’s cock rubbing against his own through denim and Dean’s hands groping and squeezing his ass and Dean making these desperate little sounds that Sam had never expected to hear aimed at _him_. Sam’s whole body is tightening, a hot pressure behind the pit of his stomach and then Dean kisses him, hard and messy, and Sam sees stars when he comes.   
  
“Fuck, _Sammy_ ,” Dean moans, and he slides his hands up the back of Sam’s shirt, fingernails digging into the skin as he rocks his crotch up against Sam’s hip. Sam gazes down at him, still light-headed from the force of his orgasm. Dean’s breath is coming in sharp little gasps, lips parted and eyelids heavy, and he looks so _hot_. Sam leans down to bury his face in Dean’s neck, licks and bites and sucks, leaving little red marks from his teeth.  
  
Dean’s hands squeeze hard on Sam’s ass, and he gasps out Sam’s name one more time; then he’s arching up underneath him, jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut as he comes too. Sam reaches down between them, palm pressed against the hard ridge of Dean’s cock, and he can _feel_ his brother come, dick twitching and pulsing right against his hand. Dean falls back against the sheets, eyes fluttering open.   
  
Sam grins down at him. “Wow,” he says, still a little breathless. Dean laughs.   
  
“Still in a bad mood?”  
  
Sam shakes his head, rolling off his brother and flopping down beside him. “God, no.” The bed feels so soft and inviting. Suddenly, he can barely keep his eyes open.  
  
“Get off my bed,” he murmurs, still grinning. “‘m tired.”  
  
“It’s my bed,” Dean protests lazily, shoving at Sam’s shoulder. Sam doesn’t budge.  
  
“Not anymore,” he replies, and Dean sighs, overly dramatic and half-teasing.  
  
“Whatever,” he says. He doesn’t get up, and sleep pulls Sam down before he can say anything more.  
  
~  
  
When Sam wakes up beside Dean the next morning, both of them still on the single bed, he waits, half-expecting some feeling of guilt, or shame, or regret.   
  
It never comes.   
  
When Dean wakes up, he stretches and yawns out his usual “Morning, Sammy.” Sam can read his brother well enough to easily tell when something’s bothering him, and that’s not the case here. Sam tries to hide his smile of relief. Things are still normal – at least, as normal as their lives get. Maybe Dean made peace with less-than-platonic feelings toward his brother as long ago as Sam did.  
  
Later, when Sam’s lying on the bed with his laptop and Dean’s just coming out of the shower, Sam clears his throat and asks, “So, when can we get more of that stuff?”  
  
Dean’s smile could light up the whole room. 


End file.
